Solace
by TheJesusFreak777
Summary: Hermione is leading a good life four months after the Battle of Hogwarts. What happens when ghosts from her past return to haunt her? HG/DM HG/GW Sorry for any previous weird formatting, it's now fixed.
1. Chapter 1

Solace  
A/N: I've got the basic plot worked out for this. I hope you like it. Please review. Feedback is necessary for one to improve or stick with something. I am planning on continuing updating Damage Control. I plan on updating both stories around the same time. This is unrelated to Damage Control, for those of you who have read it.

1.  
Hermione Granger

I remember the first time they admitted him to St. Mungo's. It had been four months after Fred had died, and I'd just begun visiting George, who'd been having surgeries on his ear to see if they could restore his hearing. I'd been heading through the lobby when a couple Healers were coming past, wheeling along a cot. I step to the side as they came past to the elevator, and I catch sight of his face.

He looked awful. He was under a sheet, his head the only thing visible, eyes flickering open and shut every few seconds. Gone was his sleek hair and handsome looks. Now he was deathly pale. To say he was paper-white would be an understatement. He had a dark purple circular bruise around his neck. His eyes open longer than a nanosecond and meet mine. "Hermione," he croaks.

"Pardon, Miss," one of the Healers say as he hits the button on the elevator door. "He's a bit off, you know."

I don't move. "What's wrong with him?"

"Tried to hang himself," another Healer pipes up.

"With a chain. He's lucky it didn't puncture his jugular," the first Healer says.

"Lucky," the other says tartly. "I think he wanted to die. It was unlucky someone found him."

"Hermione," he groans. His hand reaches out for me blindly, and I flinch.

"You know him, Miss?"

I hesitate, staring down at his face. Sticky tears wet his eyelashes. "Yes," I say at last.

"Well, come along, then. I think he just needs someone to talk to."

"He has a family," I say flatly. "Friends, too, if they care enough about him."

"Hermione..."

"He's going to a psychiatric ward," the witch explains.

"Come," he cries.

"Miss, come along," the wizard says as the elevator door opens. He pushes the cot in. "Come along, now."

I hesitate again, staring at his closed eyelids and bruised face. It didn't make sense. Why would he try to commit suicide? No crimes had been brought against him yet. He was a free man. I give in and step into the elevator.

"Thank you, Miss. He's a bit off, you know, it'll do him good to have someone to talk to."

I give a curt nod, unsure why I had agreed to come. The witch hits another button. We step out of the elevator. They move his stretcher along into a half-filled room. The memory ward. It was probably the only psychiatric ward St. Mungo's had. Gilderoy Lockhart looks up from where he was signing photographs and Neville Longbottom, who was visiting his parents, clenches his hands into tight fists. He steps across the room to stand next to me.

"What happened?" he asks quietly.

"They told me he tried to hang himself," I say.

"Wish it had worked," Neville says venomously. Rarely have I heard such poison in his voice. "How'd George's surgery go?"

"It didn't work. He's still half-deaf. He's having another operation tomorrow."

"Pity things like that happen to decent people. They should happen to ones like him," he says, jerking his head in the direction of the cot as the Healers sweep a curtain around him. "Not to invade privacy, but why are you with him?"

"I was leaving George's surgery, and they were pulling him in, and he...said my name."

"He always was odd."

"Yes."

An hour passes. Neville leaves his parents' bedside with a nod to me. At last the two Healers who had brought him in step out from the curtain. "You can go see him now, Miss," the wizard says. "He's a bit off still, might fall asleep."

"Okay." I have no intention in going to talk to him. So...

Why am I still here?

I grab my cloak, ready to leave, when I hear him groan. "Hermione..." The female Healer raises her eyebrow. "We'll let you talk in peace," she says, and they go to help Frank and Alice Longbottom ready for sleep. It was clearly an invitation to see him. I force my feet to move from where they were rooted to the floor and cross the room. I sweep aside the curtain and sit at the chair beside his bed. He was still pale. The sheet was pulled up to his bare torso. I take in his skinny, underfed body, the various scars crisscrossing his ribcage.

"Hermione," he whispers. His eyes flutter open. "Don't go."

I look at the ring around his neck. "Why did you do that?" I ask quietly. Now that I am closer, I can see the individual marks the links of the chain made.

"I don't know," he murmurs. "I had a dream, and I thought I was there again..." He shudders.

"There? Where's that?" It's hard for me to feel pity for someone so undeserving of it.

"Home," he murmurs. "And Aunt Bella was there, and you were, and..."

"And what?" I whisper, leaning closer.

"Cruciatus Curse...and you were screaming... Wanted to do something..."

I know what he's talking about now. The day Ron, Harry, Dean, Griphook, and I had been captured by Fenrir Greyback and taken to the Malfoys' mansion. "Why didn't you?" I say, my voice harsher, flatter now.

"He would kill them," he murmurs. His voice dies and he closes his eyes and groans. "He would kill them," he repeats. I see tears slide down his face. "It's my fault, all my fault," he moans, pulling the sheet over his body. He clutches it so hard his knuckles turn white.

"It's not your fault," I say, although I'm not really sure which of his crimes he was taking blame for. One thing is certain-he's in need of help. Help I don't know if anyone can give. The kind he doesn't deserve.

"What aren't I dead yet?" He laughs mirthlessly. It rasps through his throat. "I should be dead."

Yes, you should be. Aloud, I say, "No. Don't think like that." I'm not sure why I do. He should be dead. By all rights he should be burning in hell for eternity, in the deepest parts reserved for criminals like him. I haven't forgiven him. I never will.

"It's all my fault," he whispers, eyes glassy and wide, staring at nothing. "It was always going to be my fault. He wanted it to be...my fault."

"No. It's not your fault."

He sighs again and closes his eyes once more. Soon his breathing steadies, and I listen for a few minutes to the rhythmic sounds of him falling asleep. Then I stand and leave.

"Hello, Hermione!" George says with forced cheer as he sits up in his bed. "Nice to see you again."

"Good morning," I say, returning his smile as I sit down on the edge of the bed beside him. "Can you hear any better at all?"

"I don't know," he says, wrinkling his nose and screwing his eyes shut, covering his single ear. "Say something."

"Something," I say loudly.

His expression falters. "Maybe. This surgery today might be better."

"Ron said he's coming in as soon as he gets off work," I say.

"Okay," he says glumly, staring ahead. "No offense to you or anything, Hermione, but when it's just you and Mum and Percy, it can get boring."

"Harry and Mr. Weasley and your brothers and Ginny come in all the time," I say fairly.

"Not as much as Percy," he mutters. "Percy can get irritating. He's like a male version of you."

"I find that offensive," I say, but I grin. It's one of the first times I've heard him try to joke in months.

"It was a compliment," he says, laughing, but quickly his expression sours again as he stares ahead. I feel a pang as I look at him scowling. At least today he's making an effort. Ever since Fred died, he'd been about as emotional as pregnant woman.

"How are you?" I ask quietly.

He looks up and meets my eyes, looking resigned. "Tired. I miss him."

"We all do," I say softly.

He shakes his head. A tear runs down his cheek. "I never thought I'd have to go on without him, you know? Even when we were doing all the dangerous stuff for the Order of the Phoenix, I knew we'd both get out."

"Fred knew what could happen," I say softly. "It's not your fault."

"I could have went with Percy, Ron, and Harry," he says bitterly. "I was with Kingsley and Remus. Then he'd still be here, and I'd be...there."

"Stop being ridiculous," I reprimand.

He sighs. We sit in silence. Then he says, "Thanks, Hermione."

"No problem."

He gives me a watery smile. "Enough about me. What's going on with you?"

"Not much. Yesterday when I was leaving I saw Malfoy." I try to say it casually, when really I want to puke.

George curls his lip in a sneer. "What was he doing here?"

"He tried to kill himself," I answer quietly.

He snorts. "It has to be bad when even your suicide attempt fails." He looks angry now as he sits up. "The asshole."

I give a curt nod. I wonder how many times George had stayed up, wishing he had died in Fred's place, or that someone else had. I wonder if he'd ever looked in the mirror and thought about his other half... In the past four months that I've been staying with the Weasleys, I've noticed a distinctive lack of mirrors, although no one mentions it. George looks broken now. I feel a rush of pity for him, but I manage to curb it as I say, "Yeah. I wonder if anyone's going to bring anything against him at the Wizengamot."

"You should," George reasons fairly. "In fact, you can. Percy says they get a lot every day."

The idea of bringing crimes into the light is both tantalizing and sickening. I shrug. "Maybe."

"Well," he says, "I think I might, then. He's done a hell lot of things that should land him in an Azkaban cell." That's only one thing Fred's death has done to George. He now uses foul language wherever he deems it fitting.

"I miss you," I say softly. I don't finish the sentence, but he can feel the weight of the unspoken words. I miss who he was before, even if I'd disagreed with him and Fred in some of their dealings.

He puts one arm around my shoulder and kisses my cheek. "I was never gone, Hermione." I don't say anything as tears run down my face, which is an answer in itself. He sits up and wraps an arm around my waist and presses his lips to my forehead. "I'm still here," he whispers.

This is what happens. Everything has an expiration date, and I've noticed that a lot of times, things break before they reach their time.

A Healer comes in and tells me I will have to leave for the operation on George's ear canal. It could take several hours. I nod, force George a smile, and leave. I stand outside his room for a few minutes before slipping down the corridor.

It takes me by surprise when I'm in the lobby and a Healer approaches me. It's one of the ones from yesterday. The wizard. He beams at me, scratches his scruffy beard for a moment, and says, "Miss, you're the one who knows the Malfoy boy, correct?"

"Correct."

"Aye, he keeps asking for you."

What the hell? My surprise and disgust must show on my face, because he goes on quickly, "You are Hermione?"

"The one and only," I say humorlessly.

"The Hermione Granger? Order of the Phoenix, First Class, and Order of Merlin, Second Class? Founder of S.P.E.W.?"

"We aren't here to discuss the sacrifices I made in the past," I snap. "He was asking for me?"

"Yes. He's delirious, Miss. We gave him Draught of Peace for anxiety, but it didn't work. He keeps asking for you."

"What is he saying?" I ask.

"He's just saying, 'Hermione.' Sometimes while he's sleeping he cries out, but then it's not your name."

I stare at the Healer, who looks just as bemused as I feel. "Where is he?"

"Same place he was yesterday, Miss."

"Thank you," I say abruptly, turning away from him and to the staircase. I begin heading up until I find myself at the door of the Memory Ward. I hold my breath and turn the handle. The Memory Ward looks almost exactly the way I left it. Lockhart was still signing autographs. A Healer was giving a dazed-looking Ministry worker his breakfast. Alice Longbottom was staring at pictures on her nightstand with no sign of recognition.

The curtain in the back corner was pulled over its inhabitant. I make my way over there and sit down in the same chair as yesterday. He lies under several thick blankets, eyes shut.

He opens his eyes and stares up at me. "Hermione," he whispers.

I look back down at him, struggling not to hit him, jinx him, kill him. "What do you want from me?" My voice sounds harsh. I'm glad. Inside I'm shaking.

He shuts his eyes right. "I'm sorry."

"'Sorry' doesn't cut it," I say. "In case you hadn't noticed, you tried to kill us."

"I'm sorry," he repeats, and I'm surprised by the remorse in his voice. His eyes are still shut as he exhales. "He had a bribe then."

"That's a shitty reason to kill anybody," I say coldly.

He clenches his fists on the blankets. "I know," he whispers. "More like blackmail than anything." I see a tear roll down his cheek, and I'm surprised to find I feel unsympathetic. He sniffles, wipes his eyes, and continues to stare up at the ceiling. His eyes are glazed over.

"Don't go," he mumbles.

"Why shouldn't I? You killed people, Malfoy. People saw it themselves. You're a coward and a backstabber." I stand to leave. He watches with empty eyes before closing them, and I step out from the curtain. I clench my fists and leave the Memory Ward; head downstairs to await the end of George's surgery.


	2. Chapter 2

2.  
Draco Malfoy

I hate being in the Memory Ward.

It's usually very empty of people, which makes it feel haunting. Snape would say my surroundings are a window to my soul, because he had thought odd things like that. The Ward is also generally quiet at most times, which gives me more time to dwell on things. Thirdly, it's for people with: A. Amnesia; B. Miscellaneous diseases not covered in any other ward at St. Mungo's; or C. Unstable and unsound minds.

I don't want to come across as shallow. Nothing against people like that, but I've never been under any of those categories, and I don't want to start now. I don't want to be branded with any labels. Anymore labels, I should say.

I've been in St. Mungo's several times before. Once, when I'd been seven, I'd had spattergroit and barely survived. The only other time had been when my grandfather died.

Most of my memories associated with St. Mungo's are not happy ones, in other words.

I close my eyes. Everything's dark now. I can almost pretend it's going to be all fine. I can dream that nothing ever happened. That I never heard the Dark Lord's threats. Never got the Dark Mark branded on my arm. Almost unconsciously I rub my forearm. I can pretend all I want, but it's not going to change anything. I open them again. Better the brutal reality than seductive lies.

I feel the worry from the Healers almost piercing the curtain, deep into the depths of my thoughts. It wasn't worry for me. It was worry for themselves. They knew who I was. Who my parents were. It had been Father who'd first sent the owl to St. Mungo's in concern for my sanity. The first time he had been denied clearance for security purposes; him being a known Death Eater did not much help. The second, I had been put on a sixth-month waiting list, which seemed a bit ridiculous even to me. He'd found it embarrassing, and I quote: "back then we would've been seen that minute."

"Back then" is such a peculiar phrase. Because really, I can't go back far enough to escape my reputation. I'd have to go back to the moment of conception, or even farther than that. To where my parents first met. Or when their parents arranged their marriage. Generations back on the Black and Malfoy family trees. Here is always where I was supposed to be. I was always destined to be a hypocritical coward trying to escape the world the easy way.

Ouch. That thought hurts worse than the aches in my neck. I was lucky to be alive, according to the Healers. Which kind of luck is my question. So many things could have led to my demise in the last year or so. Dumbledore should have killed me. Potter should've. Anyone could have. For one thing, the hanging should've been right. I was supposed to have suffocated to death, or more preferably, broken my neck and spine when I kicked the chair out from under me for a faster death.

Of course, due to the luck of the draw, the first began, and I was dangling from my chandelier by a chain, my hands on my throat, trying to loosen the cord with the insatiable animal desire for life. I had gotten a finger between the chain and my neck and allowed myself a sharp intake of breath-a cry of help. And that is why Mum found me, fifteen seconds later. And that is why I am still alive and why my escape plan was doomed.

So then St. Mungo's had to admit me, because we have accepted insurance and it was also policy to take in the dying if you worked at a hospital. Here I am now, reduced to this. I had never thought of death as real until the Dark Lord asked me to join him in his tirades. Death had always been something that happened, but never touched me. When my grandfather had died I'd been too young to completely understand. Now my whole life rotated around the tantalizing idea.

Someone comes and brings me breakfast. He waits until I begin to eat the egg before leaving. The food tastes plain. All food has for a while. For around two years, actually. I put all the salt in the little package on it, but I barely notice the flavor.

After I finish I pull on the St. Mungo's-patient-issued clothes and head out into the Memory Ward. The sunlight streaming through the windows is painful to the eyes; but then again, I've been in a curtained-off secluded room for two days. Gilderoy looks up and beams at me. He doesn't remember having me as a student, then. I'd been awfully rude in his classes. He gestures for me to sit down.

"Hello," he says, beaming. "Would you like an autograph?"

"Uh," I say. "Sure."

He smiles again and scribbles on a piece of paper. He holds it up and hands it to me with a flourish. "You're new here," he says, still smiling. "I've been here, my, it must be five years." He lowers his voice. "Had a mishap with my wand, dear me."

"Ah," I say, and I nod in understanding. He seems to appreciate it.

"What happened to you?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Long story." I give a nervous laugh.

"I've got a lot of time."

"I'm not willing to tell," I say, a definite edge to my voice.

He blinks, apparently unfazed. "No need to get worked up about it."

There is so much of a reason to get worked up about it. Granger. The Weasleys. Potter. McGonagall. Longbottom. They all think I'm a criminal. In a way, I suppose they're right. They're entitled to hold a grudge and hate me. They should hate me. They have more than every right to do so. I was there in their tortures and their friend's tortures. I helped it.

But I didn't want to.

I leave Lockhart looking slightly confused and hurt to confront one of the Healers who brought me here. She looks at me with unconcealed disgust. "Yes?"

"Are we allowed to talk to other patients?"

"Obviously. You were just talking to Gilderoy."

"In other wards?" I demand impatiently.

She looks me up and down. "We'll see. Not now."

"Why not?" I snap.

She scowls. "Patients showing signs of aggression-like yourself-aren't allowed out of the Healers of his or her ward's sights. Standard procedure, Malfoy. Sorry." She doesn't sound very sincere, that's for sure.

I glare at her before remembering I shouldn't be so much of a dick to the people I'm trying to get forgiveness from. "Fine," I say through gritted teeth. I head back to my corner of the rooms and sweep the curtain around so I'm hidden. I kick the chair beside my bed before falling back onto the mattress. The little exertion it had took cost me. The pain in my neck was now dull and throbbing and I was wheezing. In the past four months, I'd disheveled into a shell of my former self.

I feel pressure pushing at my temples and I find a crooked piece of pipe on the bottom of the cot. I rip it out and dig it into my wrist. Hard. Beads of blood run down my arm and hand, staining the sheets a deep crimson. I grit my teeth. It feels so good to get my mind off of the worst kind of pain, the kind you can only see the effects of. The emotional kind.

Physical pain=freedom from emotional pain.


	3. Chapter 3

3.  
Hermione Granger

"You know," George says thoughtfully, "I think I can hear a little bit now." He claps a hand over his one ear and looks at me. "Say something."

"Something."

He shrugs. "Maybe. Good thing I still have my other ear," he adds, a bit too cheerfully.

Percy frowns. "You sound very happy about the fact you only have one ear."

"Yeah," George says, but his voice suddenly sounds colder. "Yeah, I am. You never know. My ear's up there with him. Might be like some kind of heavenly Extendable Ear. That'd be right wicked, it would be."

Percy blinks. Ron winces. Bill turns around from where he had been looking at a poster of a skeleton with a troubled look on his face. Ginny buries her face in her hands, and Harry puts one arm around her before glaring at George. Charlie gives a wan, thin smile.

"It's not funny," Percy says sharply.

"Oh," George says in a bored voice, "I don't know. I thought it was pretty good."

"Well, it wasn't," says Bill quietly. "Mind you, don't say that around Mum and Dad."

He meets his eyes defiantly before exhaling loudly. "Fine. Have it your way. Just trying to lighten the mood."

"You were better at it before," Ron says defeatedly.

"Shut up," George says angrily. "Just shut up."

"Why don't you both?" I retort, annoyed.

"It's different for all you," George snaps, raising his voice. "You don't even understand and you never will!"

Ginny sniffles. "Dammit," George says, throwing his hands up in the air. "Dammit. I didn't mean to make you cry." No one says anything, and he scowls. "Where's Mum and Dad?"

"Talking to some Healers," Charlie says quietly.

"When the hell am I getting out of here?" he says bluntly.

"Whenever you want," Percy snaps.

He stands up. "Good. I'll go now." He slams the door behind him as he goes. I flinch. Ginny cries softly.

"That elevated quickly," I say after a long pause.

Bill sighs. "Honestly, it did."

Once, a few days after Fred died, Percy and George drank too much when everyone had still been staying in Hogsmeade. They were intoxicated. Plastered. Wasted. Drunk. Depressed. Angry. It had taken Mr. Weasley, Bill, and Charlie's combined efforts to get them to stop killing each other. I don't remember much, because I'd been half-asleep and nursing a hangover at the time. But snatches of it come back. Ginny crying before leaving. Windows breaking in the inn we were staying at. Percy bleeding heavily from the broken nose he was sporting.

I blink the memory away. Was it worth it for their family to fall apart?

Charlie sighs and wipes his forehead. "This is ridiculous," he says, sounding uncharacteristically bitter. Of all the Weasley siblings, I know him the least, but even I know he is usually not so angry. "Fred wouldn't do this."

"Fred loved to fight," Ron says softly. "Maybe even more than George."

Charlie shrugs helplessly. "I don't know anymore." Everything's silent for a few minutes, and I concentrate on listening to the clock tick unceasingly in the corner. Finally Mr. Weasley comes in, his face ashen. "We're going to take George home now," he says. "We're rescheduling the next operation."

"How many bloody operations is he going to have?" Ron asks. His voice is hoarse.

"If this last one doesn't improve his hearing in the slightest, none," Mr. Weasley answers. "Molly and I are going now, if you all want to come now."

Everyone stands but me, and I stay on the corner of the bed. Only Ron looks back as he is halfway through the doorway. "You coming, Hermione?" he asks awkwardly.

"No," I say hastily. "I've got things to do. There's a major S.P.E.W. breach here in St. Mungo's, poor treatment from what I've heard, so I'm investigating." What a load of rubbish.

Ron blinks and nods before turning, leaving me wondering exactly why I lied to him. After a few minutes of waiting around, I stand and head to the Memory Ward. I'm not sure exactly why. I'm angry, and the best time and place to get angry is around someone who deserves to be hated. I climb the stairs and step into the ward.

The female Healer who'd first urged me to stay and visit Malfoy greets me. I nod in reply, then say, "Is that him, over there?" I point to the curtained-off area.

"Yes. He's very antisocial. Doesn't like the other patients much."

"How long till he gets released?"

"A week, maybe," the witch says, wrinkling her nose. "Merlin knows we'd all be happier with him gone. No offense."

"None taken," I say, smiling faintly, before crossing the room. I pull the curtain up and sit down in the chair.

"Granger," he says.

"Malfoy."

"Why do you keep coming around?"

"Why do you keep asking for me?"

He blinks. "Fair point." His gaze looks over my shoulder to a point perhaps in an alternate plane. "I'm sorry."

"You told me that last time, but you were delirious then." I stare at the scars on his neck. "Why do you want to talk to me so bad?"

"Because it's my fault that my aunt tried to kill you." He blinks and focuses on me again.

"Why should I believe that you're sorry?" I reply softly. "Last time I checked, you thought I was a filthy Mudblood and you were going to annihilate my species."

"I'm not my father anymore, Granger," he says, closing his eyes. "You've no idea how often in the past year I wished I were dead."

"You had a choice," I say, my voice cold. "We all have a choice. We can all decide if we want to be remembered for our failures and successes, and you made the wrong decision."

"Yeah. Yeah, I did." He sighs. "I wanted to die. I wanted people to quit remembering me." He rubs his neck. "Everyone here either hates me or is afraid of me, or both."

"You have to live with the consequences of your choices, Malfoy," I say disgustedly.

"I don't want to have to carry this alone."

"Well," I snap, "I'm sure your mother would be plenty happy to help you. Don't go to someone you owe and go even more in their debt."

"Good advice, Granger."

"Do you not understand that I hate you?" I snarl, standing.

He opens his eyes and looks up at me, and what he says chills me to the bone. "Yeah, I know. But this time you came."


	4. Chapter 4

4.  
Draco Malfoy

She doesn't know what to say to that, and she leaves, rather flustered. I may be suicidal, depressed, traumatized, and manic, but I still have my wits. I lie back down and shut my eyes, trying to shut out the rest of the world as well. It's almost absurd how easily I fall asleep.

I dream I'm in my house on the Malfoy estate. Twenty of us sit around a rectangular table. Among them I recognize Mum and Dad; Professor Snape, who looks precisely as he did before he died; Aunt Bella (my stomach begins to churn); both Carrows; and Wormtail. At one end is Dad. On the other end is a man-if he can be classified as human. He had a pale, grayish white face with hardly anything of a nose. Just the sight of the Dark Lord makes my left forearm begin to singe and smolder.

"It appears, my lord, that we have captured two people who might be able to precisely tell us where Potter is," Bellatrix says, her voice full of emotions I can't place.

"Bring them in," the Dark Lord orders.

Wormtail, the Carrows, and another I don't recognize stand and head out the door. I know what is happening now. The memory is so lurid I want to wake up, but I can't. I am stuck in here until Merlin knows how long it takes me to wake.

They reappear several minutes later, dragging forth two men. One was struggling and had a bloody nose that gushes down his front. The other was nearly unconscious and moaning.

"Weasleys, my lord," Alecto grovels. "Great friends of Potter."

The struggling one spat out a tooth. It lands on the table in front of me. "I told you we don't know where he is, dammit!"

The Dark Lord surveys the two with keen interest. "Very well." With a flick of his wand, ropes begin to tighten around both men. The guards step aside as their struggles grow weaker. "Now, who has yet to prove..." I feel his red eyes rest on me. "Ah, yes, Draco." My blood runs cold.

"He is just a boy," Mum says, without the slightest quaver in her voice. "He is not capable of such magic."

"He is of age, Narcissa," the Dark Lord says dismissively. "The more practice he gets in, the better. Draco, I want you to torture the whereabouts of Mr. Harry Potter out of these two blood traitors."

The struggling one spits again. I recognize him as George now. "Go to hell," he sneers.

"Do it," Mum whispers, so only I can hear. The fate of both my parents and myself rests in my wand at the moment. I pull it out of my pocket and stand.

"You can't do it," George says venomously. "You don't have it in you."

"Hurry Draco, we don't have all night," the Dark Lord calls, a hint of impatience in his voice.

I swallow the lump in my throat. "Yes, my lord." I raise my wand. "Crucio!"

George's scream splits the air. His face turns paper-white and his hands go limp as spasms rack his body. It's awful to look at, and soon he begins to still, but he is sobbing. His words are almost inaudible and thick with pain and tears. "I don't know where he is, you've got to believe me," he weeps.

"That was hardly a good Cruciatus Curse," Professor Snape observes. "My lord, perhaps if you let me show Draco-"

"Draco must prove his worth," the Dark Lord answers curtly. "Again, Draco, but perhaps with the other."

"No!" George screams hoarsely. "No, do it to me again... You'll kill him if you do it to him, you'll kill him, he's already hurt... Do it to me instead!"

"What you will do for brothers," the Dark Lord says haughtily. "Very well, Weasley. Draco, oblige to his recommendation."

"Yes, my lord," I say quietly, my heart pounding against my ribcage. "Crucio!"

George falls to the ground. His fetters allow him to hit the floor and he sobs. I want to turn away, but if I do, the action will not go unnoticed and Mum and Dad will pay.

"I don't know where they are!" he cries.

"Perhaps your brother does," Dad says idly.

"No, no," George begs. "No. Don't kill him. Malfoy, no, please, don't kill him, don't-"

"Interrogate him," sneers someone farther up the table.

I aim my wand at Fred, who is shaking and bone-white in the corner. His shirt is stained dark from a wound he no doubt received by his captors. Great Scott, I hope this doesn't kill him. "Crucio," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. George screams and tries to jump in the way of his brother, but the ropes won't allow it. Fred falls to the floor and the only sound he emits is a terrible, gurgling sound.

"You're a bastard!" George howls, his voice thick with pain.

"Stop!" Bellatrix cries, raising her voice. "That is the way Frank and Alice Longbottom went out. That sound could mean brain damage, or very close to death."

"So be it," Goyle growls.

"We won't be able to get a location out of him if he is dead!"

"He's useless, then," Dad says dismissively. "He won't give us a location unless he's tortured, and if he's tortured he'll die. Kill him."

"No!" George cries. "Don't kill him, don't kill him, please, no! Malfoy, please, don't!"

"My lord?" Dad asks, gazing at the Dark Lord.

He blinked for a moment. "Take them to the cellar, Draco."

"Don't kill us, please!" George begs, sobbing. "Don't kill us!"

"Do they have wands?" I ask Wormtail. He nods. I Petrify them, find their wands in their front pockets, and begin to Levitate them out the room, me shaking all over, them completely still.

"Don't kill us," George says in a frightened whisper.

"Shut up," I hiss. I keep my wand aimed at them and open the cellar door. Luna Lovegood scrambles up, and the old wandmaker struggles to stand. I lower Fred and George and push them in.

Christ, we never found out how the twins got out, but they did. The next morning we went in to check on them and they were just gone.

My dream self heads back upstairs, and I already know what's going to happen, but I can't wake up. Bellatrix has her wand raised, aimed at someone who hadn't been in the room when I'd left. And she straightens her wand arm and shouts, "Avada Kedavra!" And then I am staring into the dead eyes of Dennis Creevey.

I scream and wake up, drenched in sweat, my heart thumping against my ribcage. I'm hyperventilating and wheezing and I'm back at my home-no, my parents' house-and I am watching a fourteen-year-old boy being murdered.

The curtain whips back and a Healer pokes her head in, looking concerned. "Everything okay?"

"Fine," I gasp. Of course I'm fine. I just woke up from a nightmare screaming. No traumatization at all.

She frowns and leaves. A lot of time must have passed while I was asleep, because through the curtain I can see moonlight filtering in through the windows. I try to catch my breath, but it's no use.

I find the pipe I'd used to cut my arm under the mattress, and almost instinctively I rake it over my wrist. Damn, it hurts. I feel the skin rip, and I bite onto my sheet to choke back the cry of pain rising in my throat. My arm is gushing blood. I must've punctured a vein. I tear the sheet in half and wrap it around the wound. I should alert a Healer. That's what any sensible person would do. But the Healers don't like me. They're more likely to give me poison than Draught of Peace. No, I won't tell the Healers. I don't want their help. I don't want anyone's help. Call me proud, or a fool-call me what you will-but I won't.

My mind is growing foggy and I must have lost a lot of blood, because I feel my head grow heavy once more and I either pass out or fall back asleep, because darkness is surrounding me once more.

The next morning I wake up in an entirely different ward, surrounded by entirely different people. The witch a few beds down has a broken neck, and the wizard across from me has an arm that won't stop bleeding.

"Where am I?" I ask aloud.

"You lost a lot of blood," a Healer answers sternly. She grabs my wrist and surveys the new bandages on it. "In fact, you might lose that hand."

"Fabulous," I say sarcastically. I twist my wrist and feel pain shoot up my arm. "Just fabulous."

The witch gives me an odd look before heading away. I sigh. "When can I leave?" I call.

"You're not emotionally or physically stable," another Healer answers tartly, "but you're well within your rights to leave now."

I swing my legs out of the bed and try to stand, and they barely hold me. I stumble a few feet before sitting back down again. The Healers watch me pityingly, but none offer their help. I glare at them. "Do you have a cane I can use?"

One of the male Healers snorts. "The great Malfoy, son of everyone's favorite Death Eater." He hands me a cane. "What's it feel like to be hated, huh?"

I barely swallow my rage, my good hand clenched tight around the cane. I'm tempted to beat him with it. I can already picture the headlines in my mind. Draco Malfoy Attacks Healers. Draco Malfoy-Insane? Or even better: Draco Malfoy: Arrested. Even if I'd never been officially convicted as a Death Eater, they knew Dad and Mum were. And it wouldn't exactly take a very thorough investigation to find the Dark Mark on my arm.

I hobble out of the ward, hearing the conscious patients and Healers sneer after me. I slam the door behind me before finding an elevator. I'm not sure where I'm going, but I need to get out of St. Mungo's.

I ride the elevator down to the lobby and try to hobble out. I'm not even going to check myself out, I'm so pissed. I leave and emerge in the middle of a crowded street. I wait a few seconds, surveying the mob, before edging my way through.

Damn Healers.

I must look very odd to any Muggles watching, because I'm wearing a hospital gown with trainers and my arm's in a cast. As I walk, pain shoots up my wrist. I keep it to my chest. Where the hell am going? Leaving St. Mungo's was a rash decision, but now I have literally no plan.

I'm so preoccupied I don't realize I'm walking into someone until we collide. I fall on the road, in front of a taxicab, and she grabs ahold of a street lamp's pole to prevent herself from falling. The cab driver beeps the horn and I scramble up.

"Sorry about that," I apologize to the woman. She looks up at me, and I see her knuckles turn white as she clenches her fists at her sides. Her eyes flicker over my face before she stuffs one hand in her pocket, no doubt around her wand.

"Granger," I say.

"Are you following me?" she demands brusquely.

"No," I say, bewildered.

"Stay away from me," she says, her voice shaking.

"Do you not realize that I wish things could have been completely different?" I demand. "Do you realize that I wish I was never a Slytherin? That I had different parents?"

She steps away from me, shaking her head disgustedly. "Do me a favor, and stop feeling sorry for yourself." She pushes past me.

"Hey," I call after her, the blood roaring in my ears. "You came when I was in the hospital. You came and you comforted me and then you left."

"Go to hell."

I grab her by the shoulder and she turns to face me. She glares at me. "There is nothing left for me to live for," I say fiercely. "Do you understand?"

"Then die," she spits back, and I let go, and she walks away.


	5. Chapter 5

You guys have been lazy in your reviewing.

5.  
Hermione Granger

I head into the Ministry and onto the elevator, wedged between Mr. Weasley and an Unspeakable. Mr. Weasley glances at his watch and exhales. "Who are they trying first?"

I try to remember the schedule. "Fulvia Sanderson, isn't it?"

We head down the corridors into the Wizengamot. The court was quite large. Percy was already there, talking idly to a witch. Mr. Weasley frowns. "It's weird being down here," he says.

"The trials are public now," I point out. "It's fine."

"I don't like it," he says, glancing around uncomfortably. "We don't have any say in the outcome, unless we're presenting a crime. Why are you down here, anyway?"

I don't answer, but watch as Percy glances up and walks over towards us. "Hermione," he says quietly, shaking my hand. Then he turns to Mr. Weasley and hugs him. I see Percy's red-streaked face looking over his father's shoulder at me. He sniffles, wipes his nose, and sits down beside me. His hands are shaking badly.

"You okay, Percy?" I whisper.

He shakes his head. Mr. Weasley wanders off to talk to a Ministry wizard. Percy sighs. "Every time they drag one of them in here," he says, his voice quavering, "I keep wondering if it's the one who killed him. Any one of them could have made the roof collapse."

"Why are you doing this?" I whisper.

"Because justice needs to be served," he answers quietly. "Today they have one of the suspects who they think may have killed Lupin, and another for Fred."

"George is coming," I say unexpectedly.

"Jesus, this will be hard for him," Percy says with a groan. "Is anyone going to call on Draco Malfoy?"

I scowl. "I don't know."

"Someone should. They might today. I don't know who's all coming after Felicity Hamlin."

At that moment Neville came in. He sat down on my other side. "This trial's big news."

"Yes," Percy says shortly. "I'd better go," he adds. "Kingsley might be waiting on me." He stood and walked off briskly.

"Strange bloke," Neville murmurs.

I look over and inwardly sigh. Kingsley wasn't the reason Percy walked away. It was because George just walked in. I watch as he embraces his father. He sees me and comes over to sit in the chair beside me. Tears run down his face.

"Are you okay?"

He shrugs. A few minutes later all the witches and wizards of the Wizengamot began filling up their seats in the court. Percy sat down, somber-faced, next to Kingsley Shacklebolt. Kingsley cleared his throat. "If the Aurors could bring in our first suspect, Mrs. Fulvia Sanderson."

Harry comes in moments later, stony-faced, dragging a woman in. On her other side, a man from the Order nudged her forward. She sat down on the seat, and the chains constricted her against it. She cringed and then, oddly enough, smiled.

"On the eighth of October, the year of 1997, I, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic, call upon the Wizengamot to declare the destiny of Mrs. Fulvia Sanderson, suspect for the murders of Susan Bones and Emmeline Vance, the tortures of Icarus Penwell-God rest his soul-, Dean Thomas, Oliver Wood, and Ted Tonks-God rest his soul, and the use of Unforgivable Curses on multiple occasions. Do you have any defense in your case?" He asks, peering over at the woman.

"No."

"Do you plead guilty?"

"No, I will defend myself," she says haughtily. I hear flashbulbs explode as journalists and photographers begin taking pictures. "I was under the Imperius Curse."

"Were you ever in contact with Death Eaters before allegedly under the Imperius Curse?" Percy asks.

"Once," she says after a brief hesitation. "My husband was involved with Death Eaters."

"Involved?"

"Yes, he was friends with Lucius Malfoy-"

"Are you accusing Malfoy of being a Death Eater?" Percy interrupts, his voice oozing hostility.

I see panic flare in her eyes. She's guilty. I already know it. Rita Skeeter's Quick-Quotes Quill flies across her parchment. "He was a suspected Death Eater," she says at last.

"According to these files," Percy says aggressively, "you tortured Oliver Wood, a member of the Order of the Phoenix, who is your brother. I happened to go to Hogwarts with your brother, and he said that you were very interested in the Dark Arts."

"Are you accusing me of torturing my brother?"

"I think I am, yes."

"Percy," Kingsley says firmly. He glances back down at Fulvia Sanderson. "Are there any witnesses?"

"There is a prosecuting witness, sir," someone says, and Oliver Wood stands from where he sits a few rows ahead of me. Cameras flash.

"Take a seat, Mr. Wood," Kingsley says politely.

He sits in front of the Wizengamot, near his sister. His forehead is sweaty. He glares at her. "I was put under the Cruciatus Curse by that woman."

"Can you describe the circumstances?"

"I was working for the Order, sir, and we witnessed Muggle baiting, and when we tried to resolve it, sir, a fight broke out, and instead of being peacefully arrested, she put me under the curse."

"You may return to your seat, Mr. Wood. Mrs. Sanderson, do you have defense for that?"

"I was under the Imperius Curse."

"It's funny," Percy says sarcastically, "how many witches and wizards were under the Imperius Curse. If I look under your school file from Hogwarts," Percy begins, flipping open a large white folder, "it says that you were one of two people in your year to be able to completely resist the curse."

"I-"

"Is it true?"

"Wel-"

"Mrs. Sanderson, is it true?" Kingsley demanded in his low voice.

"Yes."

More pictures. Several people gasp.

"Do you have any defense?"

"No."

"Are there any more prosecuting accounts?"

"It wouldn't matter if there were," Percy says dismissively. "She was never under the Imperius Curse, so she could very well be guilty for a string of crimes."

"It'd be helpful if the Ministry passed the law that made Verisatium legal in these times," Kingsley rumbles. "Is there a verdict?"

"Guilty?" I hold my breath as every member of the Wizengamot raised their hands.

"What are the sentences for this, Percy?" Kingsley asks quietly.

He flips through a book. "Life in Azkaban."

She doesn't even scream as Harry returns to drag her back out. Neville shudders. I glance at George and feel his hand slip around mine.

"Our next suspect is Mr. Davis Goyle. On the eighth of October, in the year of our lord 1997, I, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic, call upon the Wizengamot to determine the fate of Davis Goyle."

This time Ron comes out, prodding Goyle, Malfoy's crony's father, forward. He sits down on the chair.

"You have been accused of Muggle baiting and purging. Is anyone here to defend you?"

"No," he answered hoarsely.

"Odd blokes, you'd think..." The Minister trailed off. "The evidence is a bit concrete. Yes, there are documents saying you were involved in Muggleborn purging. Do you plead guilty or innocent?"

"Guilty."

"Who in these courts believe this man in guilty?"

Everyone, again, raises their hands.

"Five years in Azkaban," Percy says.

We watch as more people are sentenced to Azkaban. One woman is determined innocent, because she was a Muggleborn and had solid evidence in her favor. Neville falls asleep midway through a trial and nearly falls out of his seat. Mr. Weasley breaks out in sweats every time someone new is brought in. George's hand is my lifeline. We'd only come today because they had told us someone who had been involved in Fred's death would be on trial. So far, they hadn't been sentenced.

"Now we have Astoria Greengrass, suspected for being a Death Eater, the murders of Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin-" Kingsley chokes and tears run down his cheeks- "and Fred Weasley."

Both Harry and Ron are on either side of her. She was a beautiful woman, probably my age. I recognize her as one of the girls in Pansy Parkinson's gang. Even from a distance I see Harry's fingernails dig into her arm. George sits up very straight. Mr. Weasley watched with cold dislike. When they reach the chair, Ron kicks her forward with a ferocity I'd never seen before. She sits down.

"I, Kingsley Shacklebolt, will try this woman today-I assume you know the date by now and my job position. First of all, do you, Miss Greengrass, plead guilty?"

"No."

Percy leans forward. "Do you have any evidence?"

"I was being blackmailed," she says hesitantly. I tighten my grip around George's wrist.

"Did you or did you not kill my brother and Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin?" Percy snarls.

"I didn't," she says quietly.

"Do you have any evidence?"

"I have names."

"Names of the people who killed them?" Percy asks in disbelief.

"I didn't kill anyone," she insists. "Rookwood, Orin Shacklebolt, Aries Shacklebolt, Fulvia Sanderson, Snape, Goyle, Crabbe, Timothy Blanker, Malfoy, T-"

"Malfoy?" Percy interrupts.

"Yes, Malfoy. Any of them could have been responsible. I was not."

"That's not very sustainable evidence," Kingsley mused. "Certainly my brothers could be, but I would trust Snape with my life, if he were still here. And I personally doubt a girl who had been in her seventh year at Hogwarts at the time would be capable of killing a trained Auror and a wizard as skilled as Fred Weasley."

"Evidence shows that Miss Greengrass is capable of brilliant magic," Percy retorts. "You received eleven O.W.L.s and were featured in Transfiguration Monthly."

A witch in the back piped up, "She very well could have!"

"Can you give me a name of my brother's murderer? An exact name?" Percy asks desperately.

George's hand is cutting the circulation off my own, but I don't care. Fred's murderer could be sitting right in front of us.

"No. One of the ones I listed before are most likely."

"You offer no evidence on keeping you out of Azkaban," Kingsley points out. "Is there a verdict?"

Most of the witches and wizards raise their hands for "guilty." I'm not sure what she's guilty of until they announce the charges, which are being a Death Eater. The crowd murmurs.

"She killed my brother!" Percy screams, standing up. He steps down from his chair before anyone can stop him, right up to her chair, and hits her. The entire Wizengamot breaks out into chaos. George leaps up beside me and pushes through the throng to aid his brother.

It takes twenty minutes for it to die down, and when it does, Percy is missing a sleeve and George has a broken nose. Ron is dragged out of the court by Harry and another Auror.

"Guilty," Kingsley decides. "Two years in Azkaban. We will investigate the names you have given us."

"I don't think it was her," George whispers to me, "but she knows. She knows who it is. And I hope he finds me, because when I'm done with him, he'll wish he were burning for eternity in Hell."


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Things start to pick up here, I promise. Whoever reads this chapter should totally review.  
6.  
Draco Malfoy

The crinkling of parchment. The smell of faint mildew and old paper. The sunlight flowing through the dusty windows. There had only been a few things I'd missed when I'd been away from the Malfoy estate. The library had been one.

Among some old books about the Black family, a collection of encyclopedias on wizarding law, and The Hobbit, a book I'd read the summer before my fourth year, I find it.

There wasn't a lot I loved about the estate. I liked the dining hall. Or, I had liked it. Not much now, after the murders that had occurred in the room and the thieves and killers that had sat around the table. I liked the piano room, even if I had never played the instrument. The piano had belonged to Orion. That, I suppose, was the whole reason I loved the room. The garden was beautiful and picturesque. But most of my pleasure could be found in the library, where I spent the vast majority of my time. Its shelves rivaled those of Hogwarts and the room was so decorated the king of Babylon would be envious.

I slide the book out of the shelf and grasp it in my palm. Study the worn cover. Run my fingers over the busted spine. Who knew looks could be so deceiving? I sit down in one of the armchairs and flip it open. I remember when I'd come across it with Orion when I'd been just a little mite, maybe five. It had been discarded long ago into a crate full of books that had fallen from grace, soon to be shipped to the children's ward at St. Mungo's.

I had pulled it out of the crate , saw it was padlocked, and had been about to return it when Orion had grabbed it out of my hands to examine. His eyes had lit up. He, being much more intelligent than me at the time, knew it had been something important. And since he had only been on Christmas holiday, he could still do magic. So with a flick of his wand the turns and cranks in the lock shifted and popped open.

"What is it?" I had asked, jumping up expectantly to see over Orion's shoulder. He'd rolled his eyes and sat down on the musty carpet to let me look. "It's a poem," he explained, rolling his eyes at my confusion. "You know, all rhyme-y and pretty sounding." Yes, that was the way my brother defined things.

"Cool," I'd said. "Let's read it."

And so we did. It had been long and intricate and the reason I remember it was because it had been Orion reading it to me, and the following month he had died at Hogwarts. Even wizards could have brain aneurysms, and he had died in his dorm before anyone else had even made it back from dinner. Orion had been sixteen and a prefect.

Now as I gaze at the cover, I remember how every night he had been home he had read me a bit of it. I smile at the thought. And since then, the library had become one of my favorite places. The books were my friends I could turn to when times were tough, and with them I would disappear and travel to distant lands. I couldn't have survived without them.

I'm not much interested in the poem at the moment. "Alohomora," I whisper, and the lock opens. I turn to the inside cover and gaze at the yellowing pages.

The library card was ancient. Some of the dates were from the last century. I gaze at the last name penciled in.

Orion Malfoy.

I exhale and sigh and stuff the book in my pocket. Even if the library is one of my favorite places in the world, I hate being here again. It's just the only place I have.

I hear footsteps behind me. "I don't understand why you liked it here so much," Dad says, his voice emotionless.

"It was our place," I say, not looking at him. "It was Orion's place."

I hear Dad shift on his feet behind me. "Most people your age would have given up on books by now."

"Most people your age would know better than to make the same mistake twice," I reply listlessly. I continue to scan the shelf, trying hard not to let my triumphant smirk show. "I like this place because it's innocent."

"It's not innocent," he says with a snort. "There are books in here that could tell you a spell to kill fifteen people at once. Peter Pettigrew used it, you know."

"I'm happy for him," I say sarcastically, still not looking back at my father. "This room is the one the Dark Lord never entered."

"You still call him by his name?" Dad asks, sounding a bit baffled.

I shrug, feeling pain prick my forearm. "Old habits are hard to break. You, of all people, would understand that best."

"You've got no right to say that," Dad snaps. "You're just as guilty as I am."

I clasp my hands behind my back and look closely at a book whose cover was hanging on by threads. "Perhaps," I say vaguely. "You introduced me."

"Your mother's worried."

"Good for her. What is it this time? Boomy organize the robes wrong?" I ask idly, flipping open the old book. "Reparo." The papers' wrinkles instantly unfold and the bindings come together.

"No, it's much more important than a house-elf," Dad says impatiently. "We might be sent to Azkaban if it keeps up."

"Right where we belong," I murmur.

He slaps me. My head swings back. It stings, and in the reflection of the window I see a hand-shaped red mark. I never thought Dad would hit me. I won't show pain. I won't show pain. I won't give him the satisfaction.

"Do you realize how important this is?" he snarls. "Do you realize you'll have no future if your mother and I are sentenced?"

I push him away disgustedly. "I never had a future," I spit contemptuously. "Never. You made sure of it. I was never going to do what I wanted, only what you did!"

The vein in Dad's forehead is pulsing so rapidly I'm surprised it doesn't rupture. "You should have accepted your future! You should have accepted who you were and killed Potter and we wouldn't be here now!"

"Why can't you accept who I am?" I shout. "Why can't you see who I am now?"

"You shouldn't be where you are now!"

I'm glad Orion never had to witness our screaming matches. "You're right," I say coldly. "I'm leaving."

"I won't let you!"

"Try me," I say coldly, stepping forward, and I vanish as I Disapparate, feel the air swirling around me before I open my eyes. I stand in Diagon Alley, a bit bewildered for a moment, before stalking towards the nearest store I see without looking at the sign. When I step through the door into the crowded room I almost groan. Of all the stores in Diagon Alley, the one I walked into had to be Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.

"What the hell are you doing here?" a familiar voice jeers behind me. I turn. Ron's lip curls into a sneer.

"It's legal, isn't it?" I ask politely. "To go into your brother's store?"

"Bloody hell, he'll strangle you if he sees you. You've got some nerve coming after the trial."

"What are you talking about?" I ask, irritated.

"It's all over the Prophet," Ron says, folding his arms and glaring at me. "I was there myself."

"And?"

He sighs and reaches into his cloak's pocket to remove a rolled-up copy of the Daily Prophet. The front page features Percy Weasley's fist connecting with Astoria Greengrass's nose, and behind them a courtroom in chaos. The title read GREENGRASS ACCUSES MALFOY, CHAOS AT THE WIZENGAMOT.

"What the hell?" I rip it out of his hands.

Ron gives a hollow laugh. "Looks like you're going to get your share, aren't you, Malfoy? Tell me, why the hell did you do it?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Why the hell did you kill my brother?" he snarls, and suddenly he raises his wand. The crowd in the store immediately splits around us, and a woman screams. I'm reminded intensely of a story Orion told me once, of an old prophet parting the Red Sea. I have to fight all temptation to reach for my wand, because realistically, I deserve a lot worse. Ron's face is dark with fury. "Cru-"

"What in Merlin's beard is going on in here?" someone demands, pushing through the people from the back of the store. George Weasley looked furious. "Jeez, Ron, put your wand away." Then his eyes fall on me, and I see his fist clench in his pocket, and he pulls out his wand. "I will hurt you if you come in here ever again," he says quietly. "Understood?"

I nod and push through the now-silent crowd to the door. I stop when I reach it and glance back. George is irate. Ron is scowling. I lower my eyes and step outside.

This is why Dad and Mum feared a trial. Because we've been accused. By, of all people, Astoria Greengrass, which is slightly humiliating. I sit down against a wall and begin to read the article.

9 October, 1997-Chaos ascended upon the Court of the Wizengamot yesterday when Astoria Greengrass of Cheshire, accused of the murders of Auror Nymohadora Tonks-Lupin and Fred Weasley, cofounder of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, accused several others of the crime. Rookwood, Orin Shacklebolt, Aries Shacklebolt, Fulvia Sanderson, Snape, Goyle, Crabbe, Timothy Blanker, and Malfoy were among the names she listed. Greengrass did not offer any sustainable evidence, and was sentenced to Azkaban for two years on the charges of being a Death Eater. Upon this, Percy Weasley, Junior Minister of Magic and brother of Fred Weasley, yelled, "She killed my brother!" and launched himself at Greengrass. A fistfight (Muggle dueling) broke out. In the thick of the fight were George Weasley, cofounder of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, Ronald Weasley, who was expelled from Auror training for this behavior, Percy Weasley, Oliver Wood, the Keeper for Puddlemere United, Neville Longbottom, "the hero of Hogwarts", and Hogwarts's Divination Professor Sybil Trelawney, whose reasons for being in the court are unknown. People are now curious on whether Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt or the rest of the Wizengamot will call on the Malfoy family for justification.

I ball up the newspaper and throw it away angrily. Stupid. People do stupid things when they're angry...don't they? I sigh and stand. Maybe it hadn't been so smart to yell at Dad. Now I have nowhere to go.

I leave Diagon Alley and begin to roam London. I stand in front of the Leaky Cauldron for hours, studying the sharp peaks of the mountains made of glass and concrete. Their steep slopes make the skyline bizarre and light tries to escape their shadows. I gaze at the sunset for the longest time, until it fades way into dusk. I begin to traipse around in the cool evening, trying to get my teeth to stop chattering. Damn, it's cold. It has to be near freezing now.

I'm near Diagon Alley again. The Leaky Cauldron is just across the street. If I could get there, I could rent a room for tonight and withdraw money out of Gringotts in the morning.

I see the headlights cutting through the night. I've never been in London after dark before, but I'm sure all the demons come out to play in the dark. I've never had to face the devil by myself until only too recently. I'd rather be on the side with the angels.

The car is very close, and in the lane next to my spot on the sidewalk. I give a manic laugh. Maybe hanging didn't work, but this might.

I step in front of the car. I hear the driver hit the horn, the screeching of tires, and then it collides with me.

I never thought anything Muggles made could be fatal. Hell, I was wrong. This hurts bad. I'm on the asphalt, my limbs bent at awkward angles, staring up into the inky black sky. I feel blood running down my arms and legs, burning like fire. I twist my neck to see my arm. The bone is sticking out of my elbow. A wave of nausea hits me and I vomit. Is this what death feels like? Or is this just the prologue to the next story of my life?

The driver gets out of the car. "Holy shit, Merlin." I recognize his voice. I almost laugh, but the area of my ribcage hurts too much.

He flicks on his flashlight and shines it in my face, and immediately he drops it. "Christ! Merlin! How far is it to St. Mungo's? Shit. Shit."

Of all the goddamn cars in goddamn London I could have jumped in front of, the one I picked had belonged to goddamn George Weasley.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Not sure why, but I was inspired for part of this by the scene in The Great Debaters when he was arguing with his dad after the dance and his dad thought he'd been with Samantha... Please review!  
**

**7.  
Hermione Granger**

The second time they admitted him to St. Mungo's had, quite frankly, been terrifying.

I'd been finishing an argument for S.P.E.W. at my Ministry office when an owl flew in. I didn't often get owls, and owls had been banned from the Ministry a while ago, since they caused so much attention from Muggles. But I untied the note on its leg and read it quickly.

At St. Mungo's, hit a lunatic on the way to pick you up. I'm okay. -George

"Jesus," I mutter under my breath. I finish the paragraph I was writing and head through the labyrinth of halls to the outside. While George might prefer Appartion, I don't. It's a short walk to St. Mungo's. The waiting room is nearly empty, and there is no line at the front desk. "I'm looking for George Weasley," I say.

"I bet you are," the witch says. "Are you a reporter or family member?"

"Excuse me?"

"He just ran over one of the most accused wizards alive," the witch snaps. "Now, are you a reporter or family member?"

"Family member," I say, wondering who, exactly, George creamed with his Buick.

"Relationship?"

"Is this really necessary?" I snap. "I want to know if he's okay!"

"He's fine, and if it weren't necessary, I wouldn't be doing it," she says tartly. "Now, what is your relationship with George Weasley?"

"He's my fiancé. Who did he hit?"

"You're marrying him and you don't know? Jesus, what's wrong with this society?"

"He sent me an owl for me to come."

"Then he should be able to explain. The Daily Prophet's already sent someone in here, but they'll have to wait till tomorrow at least. By then, every wizarding newspaper in the nation, maybe even world, will have someone here." She points through a door behind her. "He's back there."

"Thank you," I say, pushing through the door and emerging in a windowless room. The walls are painted beige. When I had been six and my grandfather had died, we had been waiting for the news in a room very similar to this. George is sitting on a couch, staring ahead blankly. He starts when he sees me.

"What happened?"

"I hit him."

"Who?"

He sighs. "Malfoy."

"What happened?" I sit down next to him.

It's so quiet all I can hear is the clock tick. "I don't know," he says at last. "I always drive to work and park in the church lot next to the Leaky Cauldron. He came in the store today. Ron almost did the Cruciatus Curse on him, he had it halfway out and I broke it up and sent Malfoy out. And then I was leaving, and it was dark, and I was just heading down the road and he jumped..." He laughed mirthlessly. "He goddamn jumped like he thought he could fly."

"Did he...?"

"Die? No. He didn't look good, but they can probably fix him. His bone," he says, holding one hand out past his elbow, "jutted out that far. Probably broke his legs, too, and some ribs. He was coughing blood and bleeding everywhere. I put him in the backseat and drove him here."

"The witch at the desk said that reporters will be all over here tomorrow."

"They probably will be," he agrees darkly. "I think he was trying to kill himself."

"It wouldn't be the first."

"Huh?"

So quickly I tell him how after his surgery, I'd seen him with marks around his neck. I don't tell him, though, how I had went to see him after that.

"Do you think he's guilty?" he asks quietly.

"Of killing Fred and Tonks? Maybe."

"Seems weird that he'd try to kill himself if he were innocent," George muses. "And right after the Greengrass trial, too."

The door opens again and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley bustle in. Mrs. Weasley gasps when she sees George. "Thank God," she says, "I thought you'd been hurt."

"I'm okay."

Mrs. Weasley was regaining her old personality very quickly. "How dare you run over someone!"

"Who was it, George?" Mr. Weasley asks quietly, silencing his wife.

"Draco Malfoy," he answers bitterly.

I'm surprised Mrs. Weasley doesn't swoon, but she does sit down. Mr. Weasley touches his forehead like he might be getting a migraine. "Son," he says, sounding extremely stern, "why in the name of Merlin did you do that?"

"You think I meant to?" he counters, growing red in the face.

"It's no secret that you hate him!" Mr. Weasley shouts. It's the first time I've ever seen him this angry since he and Percy rowed.

"He fucking jumped in front of my car!"

"Watch your mouth, young man!"

"He jumped!"

"Don't lie to me, boy!"

George stands up to face his father. I shrink back. I'd never thought of him as scary or even intimidating until now. "Why the hell would I lie?"

"You did it on purpose," Mr. Weasley says stubbornly. "You killed him."

"I didn't! I didn't, dammit!" His voice is rising. "He didn't die, either!"

"There could be a trial over this!" Mr. Weasley yells. "You realize they might rule it as murder?!"

I shut my eyes. No. Not another row. This will kill their family, especially so soon after Fred died. "Shut up," I say quietly, but no one hears.

"It wasn't murder! But if my own dad doesn't believe me, why the hell would the Wizengamot?!"

"Shut up," I repeat quietly.

Mr. Weasley pays no notice. "Why'd you do it? He might not have even killed Fred! It might not have been him! Why'd you try to kill him?"

"I didn't try to fucking kill him! Why can't you believe me?" Fred is screaming. His face is completely scarlet. His voice is growing shrill and hoarse and I think he's on the verge of tears. "You've got to believe me!"

"You-" Mr. Weasley begins, but I cut him off.

"Just shut up!" I cry. George opens his mouth again, as if about to talk, but I say, "Both of you, just shut up for once!"

There's nothing but silence for a few minutes. Then Mr. Weasley says, "If this goes to the Wizengamot, you'll need more evidence for me to defend you." Then he walks out, leaving us. Mrs. Weasley sniffles and follows him. George gets up and slams the door behind them. He kicks the wall so hard it dents, and then he stumbles back to sit next to me.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I really am."

I blink and shrug. "I believe you."

He sighs and runs one hand over his scalp. "Thanks," he says at last. "That means a lot." He rubs his eyes. "How could they not believe me?" He sounds injured. Betrayed. It makes my heart ache as I look at him. "I mean, really, how?"

"I don't know," I answer.

"I thought you had all the answers," he says, in an almost accusatory whisper.

"Wh-"

"Never mind," he mumbles. "Stupid. I'm stupid." He leans back and shuts his eyes. "It's been a long day."

"We should probably go home."

"I'm not going home with him," George says defiantly. "Nope. You can, but I'm not."

"And where will you be?" I lean my head against his shoulder.

"My flat above the store," he answers quickly, as if he had only just made up his mind.

"You haven't stayed there in over four months, George."

He sighs. "Yeah. I know."

"Do you want me to talk to your dad?"

He tightens his grip on the arm of the couch. "No."

"I'm worried about you," I burst out. "You've been fighting with Percy and living by yourself and getting in fights left and right. You don't even care about the store anymore. Ron basically owns it now."

"I'm tired of fighting, of talking, of thinking. I'm tired of everything," he says softly.

"Are you tired of me?" I dare to ask.

"No," he murmurs, resting his chin on my head. "I'll never be tired of you, Hermione."

"That's romantic," I say quietly.

"It's you," he says quietly. "It's always you."

I'm not sure what he means. I'm not sure I even care. I just know that with his arms around me, and within his sheltering fold, I feel safe. And that is all that matters to me. This is what love looks like.

He sighs. "I'm going home now. You can go to the Burrow, if you want, but I...I can't. You can come, if you want." I can't help but laugh, because the idea of anything humorous is absurd at the given moment. He shakes his head, smiling, and I know he is just as bewildered as I am at the thought of laughter. "Not like, 'Let's go lose our virginity!' I mean, if you don't want to go to the Burrow, there's space."

"Okay," I say. "I guess...I'll go with you."

As we leave, the witch at the desk tells us that George's Buick has been confiscated for investigation, so we walk, because he knows how much I hate Apparition. It's cold out, but I left my jacket at the office, so I grit my teeth and walk faster. When we finally get to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, the warmth is like a sanctuary. George leads the way up to the flat through a staircase in the storeroom. It's odd being in the last building where Fred slept. Eerie.

"That's where he used to sit," George says quietly, staring at an empty chair by the fireplace. "And he used to play piano there," he adds, nodding to the piano in the corner. "Well, obviously he played piano there. He liked jazzy tunes. Scott Joplin. The Entertainer. Maple Leaf Rag. American Patrol, which you know, isn't exactly patriotic for us." It's like we're in a museum, or watching a biography about someone. George stops and leans against the wall, buries his face in his palms, and sobs. "Good Lord," he says at last. "I'm okay."

"Are you sure?" I ask quietly.

He shrugs in reply. "I haven't been here since..." He trails off and swallows. "Since he died." He wipes his eyes and sniffles.

"You sure you don't want to go to the Burrow?" I suggest tentatively.

"No," he says, his voice cracking. "I don't want to go back there."

That night I sleep in the spare bedroom. Through the paper-thin walls I hear George crying in the room over. I want to go and help him. I should. It's what any rational being would do. Compassion is in our blood. Unfortunately, so is ignorance, and it wins out tonight. I try to block out the sound of his crying. I try to forget that Fred is dead, that George just ran over Draco Malfoy and the stakes may be as high as Azkaban.

As we cook breakfast the next morning I look over at him. He avoids my eyes. I glance out the window and am disgusted to see the reporters already waiting. Ron and Verity and Oliver Wood, a few of the employees who work downstairs, were having trouble pushing through the throng. "There are reporters out there," I tell him as casually as possible as I fry the bacon.

"I didn't know it was this big," he mutters.

"It's Draco Malfoy. The son of the most powerful man in the country. He was just accused of murder. Of course him being hit by a car makes news."

He gives me a sideways glance. "I guess so. Do you..." He hesitates. "Do you think everything will be fine? You don't think he'll...die, do you?"

God bless him. He was worried about a guilty man surviving his suicide attempt. "I think so," I say. "Healers can work miracles, George." I sound more confident than I feel. Who's to stop anyone from killing their self? We eat hurriedly and in silence. He does not like being here. I know it. I can tell by the way he looks around, uncertain if anything will ever be the same. Of course, nothing will be. We will never be able to be the person we could have been.

We head downstairs to the shop so George can open up and I can leave for work. Oliver stands in front of the door, glaring at the crowd of journalists outside. Verity stands at the register, looking glum as she surveys the reporters. Ron walks over to George and I, and in an undertone says, "Dad and Mum are really pissed off. Mostly Dad. Percy wants to talk to you. Ginny cried all night."

"She did?" he whispers back, looking worried.

"Yeah, it was bad. I think her emotions were all wild because-" Ron glances at me- "it's that time of the month, but either way, she was very upset."

"I should Stupefy you for that," I say.

"So you're not just an elf activist, are you? Feminist, too?"

"What's wrong with that?" I counter. "Never mind. How bad is it?"

"Bad," Ron answers, grimacing. He pulls the Daily Prophet off a counter and begins to read the headline. "'Malfoy Mutilated, Foul Play Suspected.'"

"Why is it so important?"

"Because he was one of the most powerful people in the world, George," I say impatiently. "And then he was accused of murder, and then..."

"I ran him over," George says bitterly. He looks agitated again, and I can feel the tension in the air. You could cut it with a knife. Oliver turns away from the mob and calls over his shoulder, "You know, Hermione, if you want to go to work, I'd leave now. One of the nastier photographers left to pee."

Ron snorts and stands in front of the window before he gives the horde of cameras and writers the finger. Immediately a white glare swamps over the avenue, and there's the sound of twenty flashbulbs exploding at once. "Mum will be pleased," he says, satisfied, turning away from the window.

"Ron, if you want a front-page story, you're going about it the right way," Verity calls.

Ron snickers. "Nope, I'm afraid that's reserved for George and Malfoy."


	8. Chapter 8

**8.  
Draco Malfoy**

"Is he subjected to answer questions?"

"I'm not even certain if he has a lawyer."

"Of course he has a lawyer, with that kind of money. Can you get ahold of Lucius Malfoy?"

"Yeah, he used to pop up in the fireplaces a lot, with all his donating." The person snorts. "He still makes them. I think I'd rather be poor than in his debt."

"Agreed," the other says. "Well, if it's allowed, I'd like to ask him a few questions."

I open my eyes to the bright sunlight. It feels artificial. Nothing could ever be so hopeful. I try to shift and fire begins to blaze in my veins. I barely suppress a moan of pain. What the hell happened? I feel gauze all over my face, legs, arms, and torso. I think I might be wearing a back brace. Casts on my legs and one arm.

The people beyond the curtain are still talking. "It's allowed, anything for the Prophet."

"You say this is the second time he's been in for something life-threatening in less than a month?"

"Yeah. 'Bout a week ago Narcissa had us bring him in after he tried to hang himself."

"Interesting," the other says. A woman, a journalist for the Prophet.

"Yeah. He was causing himself a lot of self-harm, too. He slit his wrists at night with one of the bars that held up his bed."

"If I know Lucius, there'll be a trial over this."

I try to sit up but fail. Gingerly I touch my face with my good hand. It's nearly completely bandaged. I probably look like a mummy. I feel the dull thud of pain behind my eyebrows and the numbness in my legs, which scares me.

The Healer snorts. "Definitely. But if there is a trial over this, they might send him to Azkaban."

"I'd feel a lot better knowing people like him were there."

Wouldn't we all? I think sarcastically, resorting to pulling my blanket closer like a child. I stare at my cast. Why the hell can't I feel anything in my legs? I lean forward to try to survey the damage but the brace restrains me. Now that I'm awake, I'm beginning to remember what happened. I was hit by a car. Who knew a car could cause so much damage?

"It's hard to get ahold of Weasley. He's not working in the front of his store anymore and he never leaves and his brother told me he doesn't want to talk to any reporters."

Bloody hell, the blindest rabbit could see the logic in that decision. That's right, I was hit by a Weasley... George. He dropped the flashlight on me. But then...what the hell does a wizard need with a flashlight?

"Should you contact the lawyer first?"

"No. If he's officially going to be accused, which he probably will be, he'll be subjected to questions anyway. Besides, stunt reporting isn't always legal."

What am I being accused of? Somewhere in my murky memory I recall something about Astoria Greengrass.

"Go ahead," the other, presumably a Healer, says. "Legal or not, he deserves a trial and cell."

The curtain flies back and sunlight blinds me. I screw my eyes shut against the brightness. The curiosity of George's Muggle flashlight remains unknown to me, and I try to force it out of my mind for the time being. Shut my eyes. Open them. Gaze at the witch sitting in the chair near me. "Pity your pretty face is messed up now," she sighs. "I was wondering if you could fill me in on what happened yesterday?"

My mind registers that she is a reporter. Daily Prophet, maybe. Even The Quibbler wouldn't pass up this good of a story. I scan her face through my memory. Skeeter. "I don't know what happened," I say. My voice sounds like sandpaper gyrating on a chalkboard.

"Now, Draco," she says delicately, "I want to help you. If George Weasley ran you over on purpose, it is my business to help you."

I'm sure it is. "I don't know," I repeat.

"I can help you put George Weasley right where he belongs."

"And that is...?" I ask with mock stupidity, knowing very well what her answer is.

"In Azkaban, Draco. If he purposely tried to kill you, I can get him sent there in a second."

"I'm not interested," I say. My head hurts.

"Could you tell me what happened yesterday?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"It's not your business."

"Draco, dear, it's definitely my business."

"It's definitely not," I say idly. "Now, please leave. I'm tired."

She scowls. I see an acid-green quill writing on a roll of parchment before she stands. "Very well, Mr. Malfoy. Perhaps I will fare better with Mr. Weasley."

You won't. You won't, because George probably doesn't want to talk as much as I do. Or maybe he had already sold my name to the public. I'll be branded as a psychotic. A murderer. A Death Eater. All the titles that deserve to be hung around my neck and jeered at me on the way to Azkaban. I'll be a dead man walking, on the way for the Dementor to seal the Kiss of destiny.

I shudder. Skeeter smiles with false benevolence and leaves. Outside I hear her tell the Healer, "He doesn't want any visitors. Now, could you tell me..." Their voices drift off as I hear their footsteps trail away.

Another Healer comes in and puts a tray of food in front of me. Asks if there's anything I need. I say a copy of the Daily Prophet for today. He leaves and returns with one and places it in my cast-free hand. He leaves quickly, like I am a quarantined victim of an infectious epidemic. Only when he is gone do I realize how difficult eating will be. It hurts to lean forward to eat. My entire ribcage aches with every swallow.

My second attempt was a failure. If George Weasley hadn't called St. Mungo's, I would be dead now. If my escape plan had worked, I would have been hit by a damn Muggle taxicab, and it might have been a hit-and-run. And I would have most definitely been dead.

It was most unusual to be hit by George Weasley, as well. He and his brother had bragged about passing their Apparation tests with distinction. So...why was he driving a car? And the flashlight? And the day after I was accused of murdering Fred... If George Weasley had any common sense at all, he would have left me bleeding and broken on the street to die.

So...why am I here?

I look closely at the Daily Prophet. The majority of the front page is dominated by a photograph of me, unconscious and surrounded by Healers, my head oozing blood, and another of George Weasley, ashen and white. The headline reads: _MALFOY MUTILATED, FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED._

There wasn't any foul play on George's part. It was a suicide attempt. Unless George could have hit the brakes and didn't, and saw me in the headlights and just pressed on. Maybe it was a combination of both of our devious ambitions. I begin to read the article.

_10 October, 1997-Last night in London, just outside of Diagon Alley, infamous Draco Malfoy was hit by a car at around a quarter past nine. The driver of the car was none other than George Weasley, cofounder of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and brother of Fred Weasley, who was killed in the Battle of Hogwarts. Malfoy, who was accused of the murders of Fred Weasley and Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin, is expected to not only pull through but wake up sometime today. Investigators are astonished to learn that no more than a week ago Malfoy attempted to hang himself, and it is uncertain if this recent incident is connected to his suicidal tendencies. Investigators and the wizarding community alike are left with these unanswered questions: Was Draco Malfoy assaulted by George Weasley or attempting suicide? And if attempting suicide, does it lead reason to believe he is guilty of the crimes he is accused of? Did Malfoy commit the murders of Fred Weasley and Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin? Story cont. on page 8._

"Bloody hell," I mutter. I wonder that if my plan had worked, George would be accused of murder. I turn the pages of the newspaper to eight.

_Cont. from page 1. George Weasley refused to give any interviews last night, but several of his relatives were contacted. Brother Percy Weasley, Junior Minister of Magic and a member of the Court of the Wizengamot, claims his brother "would never intentionally harm anyone" and "is an honorable man who would never do anything as low as murder." On the contrary, George Weasley was banned from playing Quidditch in his seventh year at Hogwarts because he engaged in Muggle-dueling alongside Harry Potter against none other than Draco Malfoy. Ronald Weasley says, "George is decent and he does decent things. Malfoy is not. It doesn't matter if George tried to kill him or not. He [Malfoy] had it coming to him." Another, Angelina Johnson, former girlfriend of Fred Weasley and friend of George Weasley, swears that "George would never plot murder. Even if it was something as important as Fred at stake."_

_Because George Weasley and Draco Malfoy are at a stalemate, so to speak, and in no legal position to properly accuse each other, the Wizengamot is faced with a troubling decision: Will they demand a trial of both, or only one or the other? Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic, has called upon the Court of the Wizengamot to make their resolution on the occurrence of a trial._

I stare at the black ink letters scrawled upon the paper, a teary haze swamping my vision. I rip the page in half, again and again, so only unreadable fragments remain. I want to die, but I am alive. I am still breathing, but I cannot take in the present. I am still happening. I am undeserving of it.

Those people in that article... They all call me a killer. Guilty. Murderer. Death Eater. Thief. Liar. Indecent. Dishonorable.

I don't want to have any of those names anymore. I've been branded. I don't want to be called anything like that ever again. But I will be, and I deserve them. They all correctly and brutally label me. They are all me. I am a killer, a murderer, a Death Eater, a thief, a liar. I have never felt more dirty than I do now.

I will never be able to escape the names. I know it in my bones. I will always be a murderer. The blood will never wash off my hands.

I fiddle with the tubes in my arms. They are Muggle devices, one of the few things St. Mungo's relied on. They pump precautionary pain relievers into my veins. I stare at the tap on the other side of my bed. Pain. They haven't numbed it any, because I can still feel like this. Like complete and utter shit.

I sigh and stare upwards. Inside I vow that as soon as I get out of St. Mungo's, I will end this.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9  
Hermione Granger**

"Miss Granger?"

I force myself not look forward, square my shoulders, and continue walking. My shoes make sharp noises on the wet sidewalk.

"Miss Granger?"

My pace grows brisker. I feel the temperature seem to drop as I continue, the rain and moisture running down my back. I pull my cloak tighter and don't look back. Don't look. Don't look.

"Miss Granger!" The voice is shrill and belongs to a child. Against my better judgement, I slow. I stop. I wait for the child to catch up. I hear panting and feet slamming against the concrete, and a boy of maybe eight runs in front of me and turns around, grinning a crooked smile.

"Yes?" I say nervously. A boy this young could not be capable of magic. He cannot harm me.

"I have a letter for you, Miss Granger."

"Why didn't you send it by owl?" I ask politely, trying very hard not to look at my watch.

"I can't afford an owl, Miss Granger, and besides, this is from someone else. They paid me a whole Sickle to come and bring you this." He reaches into his pocket and removes a crumpled envelope. For the first time I notice he is shoeless and there is a hole in his cloak. He smooths the envelope and hands it to me. I stare at the words. The letters are scrawled in different fonts and sizes, a mismatched combination of insults to the English language.

mR. GeoRGe WeAsLey AnD MisS HerMiOne GrAngeR

"What is this?" I ask sternly, looking down at the boy.

"I don't know," he responds, shrugging. "The man gave me a Sickle to bring it, and a Sickle can buy me lunch if I go to the Red Elf Inn, or maybe even a sandwich from the Leaky Cauldron. So I brought you the letter for the man."

I pocket the letter, trying to get my hands to stop shaking. I knew this would happen. Stop shaking. "Thank you," I say, trying to swallow the bile rising in my throat. "Thank you." I give him a Galleon. His eyes widen and he flips it over in his tiny palms before stuffing it in his cloak. It's probably the most money he's ever held in his life.

"Thank you, Miss Granger," he says, beaming. "I didn't know you were so generous!" He continues on his way, this time skipping, his bare feet flying over the sidewalks of Diagon Alley. I swallow and push through the crowd of reporters waiting in front of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. I hear cameras flash, but I don't stop until I am safe inside.

For the past two days the store has been forced to remain closed. Reporters are not good for business. We haven't opened, because it's futile to sell things when photographers are constantly hovering. So for two days we have remained closed. Ron and Oliver still come every day, to see if there is any security needs.

Ron raises an eyebrow. "What's up?"

I hold up the envelope. "This is what's up."

"We've already gotten at least fifteen today," Oliver says with a sigh. "That one looks odd though. It's handwritten?"

"And hand delivered," I mutter. "A little boy brought it to me."

"Open it," Ron says eagerly. "We might be able to-what's the word-deduce something from the handwriting."

Because we're definitely detectives, I think sarcastically. I tear open the wax seal of the envelope and open the letter inside. The words this time are typed.

_You deserve to die. You tried to kill Draco Malfoy.  
This will not go unnoticed.  
The Death Eaters are watching. They will come._

"Straight to the point, aren't they?" Oliver asks cheerfully. "No idea who it is, then?"

"No."

"I got a nasty letter yesterday because some old hag saw the picture of me flipping off the cameras," Ron replies seriously. "No death threats, mind you, but very nasty. We had a Howler earlier today. Woke George up."

"Where is George?"

"He's off doing something with Percy," Oliver says in an offhand sort of way. "Research, I'd gander. The Wizengamot hasn't decided about a trial yet, so Percy's probably confiding in the person his vote concerns."

I take off my wet cloak. "I'm going to go out to eat. Maybe find that boy and see who gave him the letter."

"What good's that going to do?" asks Ron.

"He can tell me who gave it to him," I say, rolling my eyes. "And then we can turn them over to the Aurors, and then the world will be free of one more Death Eater."

"Good plan. I'm going to stay here and try to chase off the reporters."

I go out the back way and head around to the main part of Diagon Alley. I head down towards the Leaky Cauldron, where I see a huddle of impoverished homeless in front of the inn. I stare at them for a moment. One girl, maybe fifteen, has a patch over her eye. An old man clutched a bottle of butterbeer. One woman holds a sign that reads MADE HOMELESS BY YOU-KNOW-WHO. HALF-BLOODS WHO HAVE NO MONEY OR MEALS. MONEY APPRECIATED.

I stop and hand her a Galleon. Her face seems to brighten. I scan the small huddle again, and without recognizing the boy, I push into the Leaky Cauldron and sit down at my usual spot at a table in the corner. I'd never come in here by myself before, and it was a bit unnerving now. The Gringotts goblins cast looks in my directions, muttering. A witch with long black hair scowls at me. I lower my eyes. Anyone in here could have sent one of the death threats.

A few reporters push inside, along with three photographers. Dammit. They'll see me. They don't right off. They gravitate towards the bar. I release the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. Tom the bartender hurries over to take my order.

"The usual," I mutter. "But could you bring me a copy of today's Daily Prophet?"

"Yes, of course," he grunts. "It ain't pretty, though." After about ten minutes he lumbers back out with a butterbeer, a roast beef sandwich, and a copy of the newspaper. I thank him, still looking closely at the journalists no more than twenty feet away. Then, resignedly, I open the newspaper.

_WIZENGAMOT TO MAKE DECISION ON MALFOY-WEASLEY TRIAL TODAY_

I scan the article.

_Junior Minister of Magic, Percy Weasley, has announced that the Wizengamot will announce its decision on the matter of the Malfoy-Weasley case today. Speculation regarding the trial has arose, and investigators are currently wondering if it is fair to have a member of the Weasley family in the Court of the Wizengamot, or several close friends, for that matter, such as Pomona Sprout, recently instated member; or the Minister of Magic himself, who was well-acquainted with the Weasley family during the War. Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt has answered these doubts and accusations with, "I am a fair leader. I have no doubts that Professor Sprout, Mr. Weasley, and I will put away biases and prejudices for the time being to bring forth the most reasonable and welcome outcome."_

I glance up to see the reporters begin to stand. I lower my eyes and try to pretend I am invisible. They stroll right past my table. I sigh. When the door opens and they leave, I slouch. Then the little boy who gave me the letter bursts in, Galleon in hand. He sits down at at table by himself, unaware that I am present. Tom grumbles and walks over to him.

"I'll take lamb stew," the boy says in a shrill voice.

"That'll be five Sickles."

The boy hands Tom the golden Galleon, who shambles to collect his change. I stare at the boy for a moment before returning to reading the article.

_However, Kingsley Shacklebolt was notorious for torturing and often killing suspects during interrogations while he was an Auror, and many were later found innocent. Can the Minister of Magic be trusted to carry out his lawful duties?_

They must be getting Kingsley and Mad-Eye mixed up, because he doesn't strike me as one that would kill without reason. I see Tom give the shoeless boy his money. I chew my sandwich, scarcely registering the taste. The boy begins to eat his stew like he'd been starving. But then again, he probably had been.

_The Weasley-Malfoy case has already been named the trial of the century by many onlookers, even if it has not been taken on by the Wizengamot. If it is, the names of tens, possibly hundreds, of Death Eaters could be released._

That would be nice. We could sleep at night without having to worry if we'll be killed in the night.

"_The guilty will always remain guilty," claims Percy Weasley. "It's only my job to expose the accused."_

The door of the Leaky Cauldron opens again, and one of the photographers comes back in, looking rushed. "I forgot my camera," she says hurriedly, pushing back to the bar. In doing so, she knocks into the boy's table, spilling his stew on the floor. She doesn't stop to apologize, but grabs her camera. I see his face crumple. I look down again as she walks past me, and I shiver as I hear the boy cry. When the door closes behind the woman, I stand and move to sit in the seat across from him. He sniffles and wipes his eyes.

"Are you okay?" I ask gently.

He shakes his head.

"Are you hungry?"

He nods immediately, then looks a little ashamed. I turn to look at Tom. "Lamb stew, Tom."

He gives a noncommittal grunt and begins to move around behind the bar. The boy sniffles again. "Who are you?"

"You gave me the letter," I say. "Don't you know?"

He shakes his head. "I can't read."

"How old are you?"

"Seven."

"My name's Hermione." I smile at him.

He returns it nervously. "I'm Lazarus."

"Nice to meet you, Lazarus."

Tom brings the bowl of stew and Lazarus begins to eat it hungrily and quickly, not stopping to savor it. He glances at me several times while he eats, but doesn't say anything, just keeps eating. I don't interrupt. When he's finished the bowl he looks longingly at its emptiness. I nod to Tom, who begins to look annoyed, but brings out another bowl.

"Thank you, Hermione," he says before gorging on the bowl. He's a pitiful sight. His face is covered in soot, his fingernails rimmed with dirt. If he stood up I could probably count his ribs through his shirt. He finishes his second bowl and burps.

"Can you tell me who gave you that envelope, Lazarus?"

He looks directly into my eyes. His are sunken in his thin face and he shakes his head. "I don't know the name. I know what he looked like. I see him a lot. He talks in Knockturn with the others a lot."

"About what? With who?"

"About everything, really, with some of the witches and wizards who go down there. I saw them go in Borgin and Burke's once. The man who works there gives me lunch sometimes if I dust the stuff there." Lazarus seems unconcerned. "You're nice, Hermione."

"Do you have anywhere to stay, Lazarus?"

He looks down. "I live in Diagon Alley, if that's what you mean."

That's not what I meant. "All right. Do you have shoes, Lazarus? Maybe a jacket?"

He frowns and shakes his head, still avoiding looking at me.

"How 'bout we fix that?"

He looks up at me and instantly averts his eyes, but I see the hope gleaming in them before he looks away. "I can't pay you back, Miss Hermione," he says uncertainly.

"That's no problem, Lazarus." George has enough more than enough to spare.

He frowns again and then nods. We head to Florish and Blott's, where I pay for a pair of trainers and new cloak. When we head outside, he turns to me and beams. He has a gap in the front of his smile where one of his teeth has fallen out. "Thank you, Hermione. I owe you."

"Nonsense," I say. "But one day soon, could you take me down to see the man who gave you the letter?"

He nods eagerly and skips down the street to several of his bedraggled friends. I envy his innocence.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10  
Draco Malfoy**

That afternoon Mum and Dad visit. I lie uncomfortably on the hospital cot, my whole body filled with a dull ache. They don't say anything at first. Dad hands me the day's edition of the Prophet with a look of grim resolution on his face. I pick up the paper and begin to read aloud to them.

"'The Court of the Wizengamot has made its official decision on the Weasley v. Malfoy trial-' Oh, this is going to be exciting," I say. "'Junior Minister of Magic Percy Weasley announced last night that the Wizengamot has decided to interfere with the private affairs of George Weasley and the Malfoy family to provide a reasonable and desirable outcome to the conspiracy surrounding the mysterious occurrences involving both.' Blimey, that's a long sentence, they're making everyone involved sound pathetic, even Percy."

"Filthy blood traitor," Dad says, scowling.

"Father!" I exclaim sarcastically, my mouth slightly agape in mock surprise. "You shouldn't give terrible labels to good people." My voice grows hard by the end of the sentence. Dad doesn't say anything, but glares at the floor. Mum twiddles her thumbs, looking uncomfortable. I smile in spite of myself and continue reading aloud.

"'Both Mr. Weasley and the Malfoy family will have one week to hire an attorney. The attorney will act as a detective in the time before the trial, which will be in February.' Bloody hell, I'd assume they'd just make it next week."

"We have an attorney," Mum murmurs meekly.

"I don't give a damn if we do or don't. I'm going to tell him I plead guilty," I say coolly.

"You didn't do half the things they accused you of," Dad snarls.

I pick the newspaper back up. "It says here that Percy Weasley hopes the trial will present the truth of what happened."

"Son," Dad says urgently, "you don't know what Azkaban's like."

"I know enough to know I deserve to be there. You and Mum, too." Privately, the idea of Azkaban scared the living hell out of me. I'd never been there. I'd sooner be sentenced to execution by swallowing hot embers-if such a torture even existed-than to have a life sentence in Azkaban. But I deserve Azkaban.

"Did you kill anyone, Draco?" Mum asks gently. She sounds like she's on the verge of tears.

I close my eyes to try to stop the tears from spilling out. I shrug in reply to her question.

"You can't plead guilty," Dad insists. "I won't allow it."

"Just like you won't allow me to leave? I've done enough things to earn a Dementor's Kiss." My voice is rising, hoarse and scratchy. I try to sit up, but it causes so much agony in my legs I surrender.

"Orion wouldn't have been this difficult!"

"I didn't think you cared about him! He's a Gryffindor! I thought all you loved were Pureblood Slytherins!"

"He would've done what I asked him to!"

"He's dead! There's no telling what he'd do!" I shout. My breath comes in rasps and I sink back down onto the bed. "I'm going to accept Azkaban."

"Your father and I aren't," Mum says briskly. "And if you accept Azkaban, you're as good as giving it to the rest of us, too."

"Great," I say. "All three of us can be justified together. Let's make it a family outing."

"Don't be a wise-ass," Dad snaps.

"Why?" I say, struggling to move where I can look him in the eye. "Don't like the fact that I hate being who we are?"

"Draco-"

"Because honestly, if it were up to me I'd rather be Gryffindor. Hell, I'd rather be Hufflepuff than where Slytherin got me."

"Honestly-"

"You're pathetic," I say, my voice full of contempt. "Are you going to sit here and try to justify the things you did? The things I did? There's no way. We deserve a trial. At the very least we deserve a life sentence."

"Draco, I'm sorry, but you are not going to get your father and I in Azkaban," Mum retorts. "We are not going to do this game anymore, where you pretend like your father and I are as bad as Voldemort or that we never did a thing to help you-"

"You two are basically the whole reason I'm where I am today-"

"What she means is you aren't going to pin your crimes on us, and we won't put ours on you," Dad finishes, glaring at me.

"I'm not going to cheat my way out of justification, even if that's what you're doing and want me to do," I say. "Is the lawyer here? I'd like to tell him right now how guilty we all are."

"He's not here now."

"Pity. Tell him I'd like to seem him."

"Let's go, Narcissa," Dad says, giving me hostile looks as he holds the door ajar for her. It shuts, and outside in the hall I hear Mum say, "Lucius, I don't think it's necessary-"

"He's asking for it, Narcissa, he doesn't want to be a part of this family anymore-"

"He's still our son, Lucius!"

"I don't care what he is!" Dad's voice is a low growl. "He doesn't want to tell us what he did, so be it. But when he threatens to put all of us at jeopardy is when he really hurts us."

I listen to their bickering as it grows fainter and fainter, and finally dissipates into a hiss as the door to the stairs shuts behind them. I close my eyes. I wish I could be proud to be their son. Instead, I'm ashamed of the burden that comes with the Malfoy name; a burden of fear and legacy and hostile names.

When Orion was around, over summer or the holidays, he would tell me how amazing it was to have the Malfoy name. I didn't quite understand until I was much older. He had told me how professors liked him before they had him in class, how the new Potions professor, Snape, treated him like an equal, despite him being a Gryffindor. He had been one of McGonagall's favorite students.

"Being a Malfoy is great, Draco," he had said, smiling. We had been in the library, his feet propped up on the table, leaning back in his chair, hands folded behind his head. "You don't realize how fortunate we are, Draco, until you get to Hogwarts. Some of the kids in my year don't have parents, because they died in the war. Some of them live in orphanages, some of them live by themselves. A lot of them don't have money. We're lucky, Draco, that we are who we are. Just remember that."

He had been fifteen then and I had been five. When he had been eleven he had been sorted into Gryffindor-the first other than Sirius Black in both the Black and Malfoy families to be sorted outside of Slytherin. The result was that he wasn't allowed to come home for Christmas that year and was welcomed home frostily by our parents that summer. At least, that's the way he had described it to me. I can't remember the event.

"They still love me," he had told me reassuringly when he'd been recollecting these things years later. "Maybe not as much as they would if I were in Slytherin, but they love me. They'll love you, too, even if you aren't in Slytherin. No matter the choices you make, they'll love you."

It was an insult to the Malfoy name for one to be sorted into Gryffindor. Orion knew it, but he didn't seem to mind. He didn't even seem to mind that our parents were prejudiced against his House. I remember vividly how, one June we'd been coming to pick him up from King's Cross, he had been holding hands with a Gryffindor girl. He'd kissed her on the cheek and said good-bye, and Dad blew a gasket. All the way home he had ranted on how it was one thing for a Malfoy to be in Gryffindor, but it was as bad as murder for one to have anything to do with a Mudblood. Worse than murder, even, in their eyes. Because the murder of Muggle-borns had happened in the name of Pureblood Malfoys.

I wonder what Orion would do. What choices he'd make. Would he choose between the right and the wrong or go with our parents' will? I try to picture where he'd be now, in my situation, but all I can see is his warm smile as I try to picture him as slowly unconscious envelopes me.


End file.
